


The Escape Artist

by Stakebait



Series: Uncovered and other stories [5]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9243278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: To convince Peter that's its okay to bring his handcuffs into the bedroom, Neal brings them onto center stage.





	

Peter worries about the wrong things. Neal has noticed it before. 

Peter wants to put the cuffs on Neal, that's obvious, and it's not exactly surprising. Peter has been wanting to put the cuffs on Neal since long before he understood why. And he's done it, too, three times. The last was the best: Neal finally not too preoccupied with Kate to enjoy it, and also the not going to prison part, and Peter stealing something for him, to keep him—that was a good day. 

But the point is, Peter knew, back then. He told Neal not to pick the lock on the handcuffs, and Neal didn't. He didn't even slip his hand out, even though Peter had put them on way too loose, not like Agent Burke did at all.

But somehow now that Peter has (finally) figured out why he touches Neal more times in a day than he does Jones in a year, he's forgotten that to someone who never met a lock he couldn't pick, cuffs are _not a big deal_. What kept Neal in that conference room was Peter's order, and his stern look with the adorable brow furrows, and also a little guilt, and a giant needle of happy juice, and the hope that maybe, if he looked pliable and floppy enough, Peter would carry him again. But mostly the first thing. And cuffs were nowhere on that list.

Neal doesn't consider himself the next Houdini or anything, but Peter could wrap Neal in chains and hang him upside down, and as long as there was no water involved, Neal would bet on himself getting free eventually. Assuming Peter wasn't being too distracting. And that he actually wanted to. But Peter keeps fingering the cuffs, and looking at the anklet, and worrying about abuse of power. And the adorable brow furrows are not worth this. 

Neal is not even really that into handcuffs, in general, except as a way to keep his hand in at lock picking, pun intended. They're cold, and they cut into your wrists if you pull against them. And Neal likes to do that rapid power switching thing where you never know from second to second who's on top, and cuffs make that harder. But he is into Peter's handcuffs, because Peter is, and because Peter catching Neal—that's their kink, the thing they're hooked on, the one they keep playing out, over and over. Handcuffs are the way that game ends. And Peter and Neal, they both love to keep score.

Neal has already considered and discarded the plan to “just tell him.” He knows it's Elizabeth's go-to, and for her, it works. But for Neal—Peter's had too much practice looking behind his words for an ulterior motive. And, Neal admits, too much reason to do so. If Neal wants Peter to believe something, he needs to show him. Better yet, he needs Peter to ferret it out for himself.

If only he could figure out which Peter needed reminding of—that Neal could get out, and that made it okay, or that he didn't want to.

It was a good three weeks before Neal came up with a way to work it in to the case load—because Peter loves puzzles, but he doesn't love Neal yanking his chain, and it's a fine line sometimes. Neal figured it would be a while yet before it was safe to revisit the “I drive you crazy 'cause it drives you crazy” routine.

But this was a legit case, and a legit angle. It just had... synergy.

Someone was using Cirque de Soleil's touring company as a cover for smuggling. So their source told them, anyway, and even though he's a clown—literally—Peter thought he was credible. He'd been with the show since there was only one; if anyone would notice when something was off, it would be this guy. The problem was, he didn't even know what they were smuggling, let alone have any proof.

Neal couldn't quite understand how anyone could get in on a big thing on the ground floor and have so little to show for it, but when they took him to lunch, he got it. The guy's hand shook. He'd got the D.T.s. So that's where the money went, and why at pushing 50 he was still taking pratfalls onto trampolines. 

Neal touched the back of Peter's hand, to get his attention, and gave the rattling ice in the man's water glass a meaningful glance. Peter's jaw set: Message received. Peter's gut might trust this guy, but he'd be far too easy to discredit on a witness stand.

On the walk back to the office, the scheme came to Neal in all its audacious, off-color glory. Now he just had to convince Peter. Or more to the point, to convince Peter that Peter could convince Hughes.

“Peter,” he said, “can I talk to you?” in the low, slightly husky yet serious voice that said this was the real thing, not a ploy to get Peter alone—because Peter would not tolerate the slightest delay for personal reasons, not on a hot new case, and Neal wouldn't have him any other way.

Neal took a deep breath. “I have an idea.”

************************

“It's called 'Cirque de la Lune,'” Mozzie, in his ringmaster's outfit, explained to the mark. He looked surprisingly dashing in a virulently colored top hat and tails, like a cross between The Penguin and The Joker.

“Sounds like a trademark lawsuit waiting to happen,” the man commented. 

“One cannot own the heavens,” Mozzie announced grandiloquently, an effect he immediately deflated by adding “We should be fine. Boots' brother is an IP lawyer.”

“Boots?”

Mozzie gestured upward, to where a woman in an artistically slashed white leotard was tangling herself in red silks hung from the warehouse ceiling. She plummeted fast to a throbbing industrial beat, then jerked to a stop a mere foot from the ground by her rapidly unspooling wrappings, practically at the man's feet. She gave him a sultry look, then basically climbed his body, wrapping her powerful thighs around him for purchase at several points before taking flight, again, from his shoulders.

“That's Boots.”

The man was trying not to look impressed, Neal could tell. “Cirque—the real Cirque—has better aerial silks than that.”

“Of course it does,” said Mozzie, not offended. “It's the Circus Arts Industrial Complex. We're not going to beat them on polish. It can't be done. We're going to beat them on edge. And sex, of course. Our merry band of lunatics”—Neal, watching from the balcony, could still see him savor the pun— “design all their own acts. All their own costumes. We go places they won't, we take risks they don't dare, and we don't shy away from why most people come to see writhing bodies in skin tight costumes do things they can only dream of.”

Behind them, two men in particolored bodysuits and fencing masks began a sword fight with flaming foils. The sheer amount of touching that they worked into it—climbing over, on, and through each other—was impressive even by Peter's standards, Neal thought. 

“Safety!” Mozzie bellowed. “Duvetine! We can barely afford the insurance here, people, if you set it on fire I will personally kick you back to the playa.” A harried stagehand carrying what looked like a small blanket hurriedly came out of the wings to hover anxiously around them.

A man and a woman in strappy bondage harnesses, tattoos, and damned little else came rolling in on Cyr wheels, while a woman in suspenders that just barely covered her nipples and no shirt cracked a bullwhip for no obvious reason.

“I see you've thought this through,” the man said, noncommittally. The music had gone more towards a Dead Can Dance feel, and judging by the man's forehead crinkles, he was not a fan. Now that they'd established their bone fides, Neal felt it was time to move the conversation to a less distracting venue. He flicked a switch and leaned into the microphone.

“Dante,” he said in a booming voice that echoed off the brickwork, “would you come up to the sound booth, please?”

Mozzie led the mark up the narrow stairs. Neal met them at the door to the glassed in enclosure, wearing a black t-shirt that read “This is my circus, and these are my monkeys,” in white lettering, and a pair of well-fitted button down jeans.

“Hi, I'm Spark,” said Neal to the stranger, offering a firm handshake. “Sorry to interrupt,” he added. “I gotta go get changed. Can you run the sound cues while you finish up?”

“Sure,” said Mozzie, waving expansively to his visitor as if there were more than two folding chairs and a space the size of a small bathroom before them. “Make yourself at home.”

************************

It had been 12 minutes since his rehearsal ended, and Neal was _still_ wiping off the baby oil. “Did he buy it?”

Mozzie made a “comme ci, comme ca” gesture. “He bought that we wanted his Cirque background to class up the joint. He thinks we're a bunch of Burner hobbyist wannabes who won't stay open more than a week.”

Neal privately felt this was a credit to the man's observational skills. Though overall, he was surprised how well he got on with Mozzie's crew “from before The Man took over Burning Man.” They were comfortable with multiple aliases, they knew all about loading and unloading shipping containers, they had no trouble executing complicated plans at scale, and they didn't ask difficult questions like “why do you want to bother doing all this?” or “where is the money coming from?” 

Mostly the problem was outfits. Neal had no problem wearing leather and a glistening web of chains, cuffs, locks, and a blindfold in front of hundreds of people—it was the wrap pants and fuzzy animal hat for his off-stage persona that pained him.

“Hopefully we won't need more than a week,” Neal replied. 

“He's not gonna quit his Cirque gig, he's just gonna take our money, work a double on the weekends, and hope his bosses don't find out,” was Mozzie's read.

“That's why we went with the midnight performance schedule,” Neal agreed. 

“That and verisimilitude,” Mozzie quibbled. Neal was forced to agree. In this cluster of former industrial lofts turned performance venues—plus a sex club, a Maker space, and an anarchist collective—a midnight start time made Cirque de la Lune the early bird.

“I can bug his other costume while he's on stage. Just—make sure he's not actually anyone's backup. People that tired make mistakes.”

“Don't worry,” said Mozzie, “I've got him doubling Puck.”

At 6 foot 3, Puck was the burliest kilt-wearing, accordion-playing unicyclist Neal had ever encountered. “I think we're good.”

************************

Neal was pretty tired himself. It had proved too hard to get Diana and Jones into the Broadway theater hosting Sorciere as tech crew or security—it was a union shop, and while Peter could go to the top and get cooperation, the chance of a leak was just too high, not when they had no idea how long they'd have to stay undercover. So they stayed in the van. “Spark” worked his new-found connection to the target—and a little gentle blackmail about non-compete agreements—to get the only non-union gig in the place—working the line as a warm up act for tips. 

On autopilot, Neal passed a crystal ball over and under around his hands and arms and neck and shoulders, pulled coins and cards out of fretful little kids' ears, and charmed their sullen teenage sisters (and brothers) with you-are-in-on-the-trick smiles. It was good practice, and beer money, and it kept him in position to move fast if needed, but on top of a full day at the FBI and wriggling out of serious bondage in preparation for the late-late hipster show, it was a lot.

Neal just wished he'd been able to come up with a good reason to ask Peter to be the one to put him into the cuffs (and chains, and arm binder, and blindfold) in the first place. But from a showmanship perspective, Diana in something brief made much more sense. At least Peter was going to have to be there tonight. The “random bandana wrapped around one ankle because hippies” disguise that had worked for rehearsal was not going to cut it for the performance—Peter was going to have to take the anklet off, and that meant he had to stay close.

The target's mic suddenly came live in his earpiece. In Polish.

That was a problem. Neal didn't speak Polish, beyond the basics like “biegać, to Interpol!” [1] and “Chcę większe cięcia.” [2] 

More to the point, there was no reason Neal knew of why Freddie Logan of Iowa City should, either.

Neal slipped away from the line and locked himself into the theater's sole accessible bathroom. He hit speed dial.

“Peter,” he said urgently. “It's the same costume, but it's not the same guy. They're running find the lady.”

************************

The good news was, whoever was organizing the operation hadn't spotted Logan as an unwitting mole, or they wouldn't be shooting their mouth off in front of the wire. It was just bad luck—or maybe the same itch for easy money that made Logan an attractive target to Neal and Mozzie had drawn the smugglers too. 

The bad news was, they had no way of knowing if whoever was running this show even knew about Logan's side gig, and hence, that anyone would miss him once Sorciere's final New York date, that night, was over. When Cirque opened in Gdansk, anyone in the cast who learned that Freddy had decided to stay in the States would not be too surprised; a replacement with EU papers wouldn't raise eyebrows for long. Or maybe the con was even simpler; maybe the mystery voice would take off his costume and makeup and disappear into a waiting car as soon as they made it through customs, and Freddie Logan would wake up in a cheap motel room, complaining loudly about his stolen passport, and rejoin the cast at the next port of call.

Neal hoped so. He was well aware that not waking up at all was also one of the options.

************************

For once in his life, Neal wanted to be in the van, where the action was. But “the show must go on,” said Mozzie, and “you spent $10,000 of the Bureau's money, you better fucking show up” said Peter, and “Neal, honey, I have another job tonight, the kind that actually pays, and someone has to keep the performers away from the absinthe,” said Elizabeth. So there they were, running Cirque du Burke and wondering just who, or what, if anyone was going to play the starring role.

When Logan walked in at 11:32, already in costume, and whistling like nothing was wrong, Neal didn't know what to think. When Logan walked in again at 11:47, Neal knew exactly what to think, but it was too late, the audience was already trickling into the seats, and Neal was squirming after Logans 1 and 2 through a crowd of costumed madmen in black light, like a fever nightmare, hissing whispered explanations through his headset at Peter as he went.

When Logan walked in _again_ at intermission, Neal was already halfway to hogtied.

It was like a striptease in reverse, having Diana load him up with chains and down with locks on stage, because otherwise where was the suspense? The first lock to pick was the hardest, after all, and there needed to be a buildup to it, because after that it was all momentum, rolling downhill. That was Neal's working theory, anyway. For all he'd been picking locks and putting up one hell of a show for years, he'd never actually tried to combine the two before. Neal kept trying to peer into the darkness in the wings, where the occasional faint thumping told him the chase must go on, but with the blinding spots on him he could barely see the audience even before the blindfold went on. 

Neal hung in midair, swinging gently, his weight cleverly distributed through the chain harness so as to leave his wrists free to work. Diana turned out to have quite a talent for bondage or, as she called it, physics. Neal decided not to mention it, at least not till he was free and had a head start. 

It took him four minutes to pick the first lock that pinioned his ankles behind his head, an eternity in show biz time, while Mozzie vamped a voiceover to the VNV Nation soundtrack and Diana stood around looking menacing and half-dressed. 

After that it went faster, the heavy thigh cuffs linking his hips to his shoulders next, so now he could hang upright. A breathe of wind brushed by his face—someone on the trapeze? Now? A rattle of chains told him someone had tripped over the pile of metal he'd been able to discard at his feet so far. 

And then Mozzie, bless him, began to narrate into the microphone the chase that was going on above, below, and occasionally on top of Neal, as if it were part of the show. 

The audience ate it up, as Logan fighting Logan chased Logan through the flies, swung from the silks rig, and walked along the balcony railing. All the while Neal, fuck showmanship, was shucking locks and chains and cuffs and binders as fast as he could shrug out of them because that had been a real bullet he'd heard hit one of the curtain sandbags, and Peter was out there somewhere, goddamnit, and Neal couldn't even see if he was okay. 

In the end it was Mozzie, of all people, who saved the day, and Neal shouldn't have been surprised, because Mozzie had been running find the lady years before Neal had even come to New York to find his fortune. Neal finally managed to twist his shoulders back over his head and pull the blindfold off just in time to see Moz direct Diana to pull yet another Logan, in plain clothes, from the back row for “audience participation.” And finally Neal got the last ankle cuffs off and was able to stand, with only a single pair of handcuffs left on his wrists. The music, finally, ended. Neal took a bow, his disheveled hair flopping into his face and sticking to the sweat. 

By the time Neal managed to make his way out the stage door to the street, almost 10 minutes had passed. All the Logans were lined up in the custody of Jones and their NYPD backup. Somewhere in all of this, Neal had lost track of which were the villains, which were the would-be border crossers they were trying to smuggle out of the country under Cirque's big tent, and which were the patsies whose places they were taking, but that was all right. Peter would turn over all the cups and sort them all out, in the morning. 

Peter was waiting for him, holding the anklet. 

“Was I supposed to bring you flowers?” he asked. 

Neal jerked his chin sideways to indicate the bouquet of bad guys. “Those'll do.” 

Diana came out the stage door, and Jones came over to join them. 

“We did it,” Peter said, tired but satisfied. 

“I still think there had to be a simpler way,” said Diana, kicking off her platform shoes to slip into sneakers and lifting the blue wig off her head. 

“Several,” Neal admitted smugly. “But this was more fun.” 

Diana shook her head, mock-disgusted—at least, Neal hoped it was mock. “Caffrey, you are paying for my foot massage. Jones, drive me home.” 

“Was all this for my benefit?” Peter demanded of Neal when they and the NYPD had gone, indicating Neal's half dressed state. Neal had managed to rub off most of the baby oil, but he couldn't get a shirt on over the handcuffs. That wasn't really a problem—he was still warm from the stage lights and effort and adrenaline—but the night air was making his nipples crinkle up and stand to attention. 

“Most of it,” Neal admitted, it being never worth while to deny the obvious, unless the statute of limitations was involved. 

“Then—thanks. I think. But, Neal—it doesn't do anything for me to see you in cuffs unless they're mine.” 

“They are yours,” said Neal. 

“What?” asked Peter intelligently. 

Neal gestured towards Peter's waist with his two hands together in front of him—the only way he could gesture, at the moment, with the final pair of cuffs still linking his wrists. 

“Check your belt.” 

Peter felt for the place where the cuffs normally rode beneath his suit jacket when he was going on a bust. They were gone, of course. 

“You stole my handcuffs.” 

“Borrowed,” corrected Neal.

“You _borrowed_ my official, FBI-issued, regulation, special-agents-only handcuffs. For a bondage show.” 

“For an undercover operation,” corrected Neal. “But yes. And that's why I'm still wearing them.” 

In spite of himself, Peter gave a half smile. “You forget to steal the key too?” 

“Peter,” said Neal. “I don't take off your cuffs without your permission. You told me not to, remember?” 

Peter's eyes went dark with desire. For a second Neal thought Peter was going to slam him down on the car hood and take him right there in front of god and Williamsburg. Neal would not have said no. 

“In that case, Caffrey,” he said. “Get in the car.” He opened the back door, not the front, and Neal's dick jumped. Now there was a kink Neal had not known he had. Peter even pushed Neal's head down to clear the door frame, like a real arrest, and as Peter closed the door on him and put the car in gear, Neal found himself imagining that same gesture if it kept going, pushing him to his knees. Neal falling forward, and landing face first in Peter's crotch because he couldn't catch himself with his hands bound. 

Neal wasn't touching himself, not really, but he could feel the soft scrape of the edge of the cuffs through his pants and the heavy sway of the chain between them. 

“Peter,” Neal asked after a few minutes, “where are we going?” 

Peter met Neal's eyes in the mirror. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “Anything you say will most definitely be used against you.” 

“That was kind of the point,” Neal pointed out. 

“Just shut up, Caffrey,” Peter said. “Let me enjoy the moment.” 

Whatever was going to happen to him tonight, Neal didn't think Peter was worried anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1Run, it's Interpol! [ return to text ]
> 
> 2I want a bigger cut. [ return to text ]
> 
> *******
> 
> Many thanks to Dotfic for beta reading as always! Thanks to the real Boots, Puck, and Spark for loaning their nicknames in a good cause. Thanks to my Facebook friends for crowdsourcing the Cirque show name, and to La_Temperanza again for the tutorial on linked footnotes. 
> 
> White Collar was created by Jeff Eastin and aired on the USA Network. No profit has been or will be generated by this transformative work.


End file.
